Life After the Fall
by yvettelikesfire
Summary: My first Sherlock fic- so be gentle. Chapters aren't very long, but might get longer as the story progresses. Sherlock/John. Now with some smut, hense the increase in rating.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes sat on the wall that surrounded the cemetery and watched his grave intently. Dr John Watson, kneeling in front of it, Mrs Hudson, placing a comforting hand on John's shaking shoulders. Sherlock watched them visit at noon every Saturday; watched them visit an empty grave and mourn a man who was very much alive.

"Bah, alive," Sherlock spat bitterly, watching Mrs Hudson lay a bouquet of orchids. Sherlock was dead; the entire world knew that to be fact. Well, all apart from Molly and, while he appreciated what she had done for him, he had quickly grown bored of her company. She was ordinary. John was not. He missed Baker Street, solving unsolvable cases and, most of all; he missed John—although he hated to admit it, even to himself. Which is why he came here, to catch a few glimpses of the life he left behind. To remind himself of what he was missing. He liked to watch them mourn him, so he could mourn the loss of them.

Molly had given him her spare room. They lived in uncomfortable harmony. Sherlock mainly stuck to his bedroom, composing on his violin, smoking and generally staying out of Molly's way. Sometimes John would visit and Sherlock would listen eagerly to him chatter on about anything but his dead ex-partner. Whenever Molly mentioned an old case or a quirk of Sherlock's, John's voice would thicken with emotion and he would immediately change the subject. Sherlock would sit in his room wishing he could run and comfort his dearest friend. Once, he had actually ran to the living room door and had to stop himself from bursting in and collapsing at John's feet.

Instead he'd tiptoed to his room and injected himself with heroin. Most days were danger days for Sherlock now. He welcomed the familiar numbness with open arms. Anything to take away the guilt—an almost entirely new emotion to Mr Holmes: the man who feels nothing. His cool, emotionless mask had slipped and he was just grateful that John was not around to see it.

It was in one of these almost comatose like states that Sherlock overheard something that disturbed him greatly. He had rolled off the bed and was lying flat on his back examining a damp stain on the ceiling as if it were a Picasso original. He heard Molly open the front door and welcome John into the apartment warmly. Sherlock tried to get up but was so intoxicated and weak from the drugs and lack of food that he crashed back to the floor like Bambi on ice. Instead he dragged himself over to the wall and pressed an ear to it to listen in.

John was mumbling about therapy and his seemingly growing alcohol problem.

"You know that won't help, John, you're a doctor!" Molly sounded concerned.

"It's just… it helps me to… see him again," John was hallucinating. A common side effect of grief, Sherlock analysed, a habit that he had been neglecting of late.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock knew that John would be wincing, heard him make a sharp noise through his teeth and smiled dully at the proof of his hypothesis.

"Don't…"

"You have to talk about him John, it'll help you grieve! Sherlock was your best friend!"

"I see him everywhere, Molly," John choked, his voice cracking and full of so many conflicting emotions that even Sherlock could not decipher them all. "It's like Sherlock's ghost is following me. More so when I drink but I know it isn't healthy! Which is why I'm leaving Baker Street?"

"Where will you go?"

"Not far, I've rented a place about ten minutes from here,"

"And Mrs Hudson?"

"Mrs Hudson, leave Baker Street? England would fall!" John and Sherlock muttered in unison, reminiscing something Sherlock had said what felt like an age ago.

Molly came in a half hour later, finding Sherlock lying against the wall, wrapped in a sheet and sobbing like a child. Molly rushed over and lifted him to his feet before helping him back into bed. He lay in the foetal position, staring at the wall connecting his bedroom with the lounge. Molly began collecting all the used needles carefully and folded Sherlock's stash into a brown paper package.

"No more Sherlock! You hear me? You need to get clean!" Molly said sternly, waving the parcel of drugs in Sherlock's face. "I will not have you using this crap to numb the pain!"

Sherlock stared blankly at the wall. He was vaguely aware of what Molly was doing but was powerless to stop her. He was still reeling from his unexpected emotional outburst, crying quietly to himself and unable to do much else. This was another practically unexplored emotion for Sherlock.

"Isn't it time you told them all you aren't dead?" Molly soothed, returning from disposing of the package. She rubbed Sherlock's back like a child. "Time to come back and clear your name, eh?"

Then an idea suddenly struck Sherlock's genius mind like a lightening bolt. He sprang upright, his brain whirring dustily as it had not been properly used for a very long time.

"All in good time, Molly Hooper," Sherlock kissed her on the cheek. "You have given me a most brilliant idea." He flopped back into the bed with a slow smile spreading across his unshaven, angular face. It was as if the light had suddenly returned to his bright blue eyes. "For now I need to rest."

Molly left the room beaming from ear to ear. Sherlock was back.

Meanwhile, John Watson sat in his newly rented flat, sipping a cup of tea out of Sherlock's old mug with Sherlock's famous blue scarf laid out next to him on the sofa where the man himself should have been sitting. John did this a lot since Sherlock had… fallen. They were the only things he had left of the genius that was once his best friend and so much more.

Sometimes John would hear Sherlock's voice; see him on the street, or at his grave. Each time that day would come flooding back into his mind and he would be left catatonic. He would be consumed by all the things he wished he'd said, all the things he could of done to stop Sherlock from jumping but didn't. He would then slowly realise that he would never see his best friend again and the anger would descend. If Sherlock were somehow alive, John probably would have killed him himself for doing that in front of his so-called "best friend".

Well Sherlock Holmes was very much alive and well. He was, in fact, sat on a bench across the road from John's new flat. He had his hands clasped as if praying and was thinking intently. A beep from his phone snapped him back into awareness. A text.

"MY THERAPIST SAID I SHOULD WRITE YOU A LETTER, BUT I WAS NEVER TOO GOOD WITH WORDS. HOW ABOUT A TEXT INSTEAD? I MISS YOU, SHERLOCK HOLMES. –JW"

Sherlock, now clean shaven and well-fed, had been sat on that bench for eight whole hours attempting to work up the courage to tell John that he was alive. He had devised precisely 536 different ways to tell John what had really happened but he had been beaten by the third new emotion to confront Sherlock in the past few months: nervousness.

Sherlock craved a nicotine rush and so walked to the nearest shop for a carton of cigarettes. He had smoked half the packet before he mustered up the courage to reach the doorway of John's flat.

Sherlock noted the chipping paint on the door, the flower pot next to the doormat, no doubt concealing a spare key. He could tell by the apartment building that this flat was ridiculously overpriced and nowhere near as nice internally as the one they had shared at Baker Street. Why did John have to move? He could have killed two birds with one stone and told John and Mrs Hudson he was alive in one cab fare.

He lifted up his fist to knock when the door swung open and John Watson, clearly on his way out to do an errand, stared up at Sherlock's surprised face. Their expressions mirrored eachother: joy, confusion, relief, anger. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something more witty than "hello" when John dropped down unconscious to the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

Dr John Watson, previously of 221B Baker Street, now living in a tiny rented flat that he defensively called "cosy", was out for the count. Sherlock had been unsure what to do when his friend, who had thought he was dead for the past six months, fainted at his feet. Sherlock had, rolled over John and checked his pulse. Upon seeing that his friend was alive he deduced that the shock of seeing a supposedly dead man on his doorstep, and one that he had been very close to, must have cause him enough shock for his system to shut down. Sherlock had then dragged John into the apartment (the door had shut and locked when John fainted, but Sherlock was right about the key in the flower pot).

Sherlock had dragged John on to the sofa and made them both a cup of tea while he waited for his friend to come round. Sherlock had drank his and his unconscious companion's cuppa before John started to moan under his breath. His eyelids soon fluttered open and he sprang upright, as if he was lying on hot coals. He leapt to his feet, pacing the room and muttering incoherently under his breath. It was several moments before he stopped and saw Sherlock sitting in the arm chair with yet another cup of hot tea.

"Ah, John, you're awake at last!" Sherlock mused, handing him the mug. "Be careful, it's hot!"

"So it wasn't a dream…" John took the cup and held it at mouth level, but did not drink. Instead he stared, like a deer caught in the headlights, at Sherlock Holmes.

"No, I'm alive."

"So I can see," John finally sipped his tea, and sank bank down into a sitting position.

The pair stared at each other in silence, John's stunned and Sherlock's uncomfortable. Neither party were sure what to do or say to one another, after all six months had passed and Sherlock was supposed to be six feet under. John continued taking small sips of his tea, never breaking eye contact with Sherlock. Sherlock, slightly unnerved by this, but also unwilling to break eye contact, stared back, his head cocked to one side, waiting for John to say something.

Finally, Sherlock could take the silence no longer and stood up to go make himself some strong coffee. As he flicked the switch on the kettle he said, "Haven't you anything to say?"

"That's the problem," John muttered, putting down his cup and placing his head in his hands. "I have so much to say I really don't know where to start!"

"A 'Hello Sherlock' would suffice," Sherlock said as he returned with two mugs of coffee.

John took the one Sherlock had offered to him and inhaled the smell deeply, trying to wake himself up so he could realise that he was actually still safely tucked in bed and Sherlock Holmes was still dead. He couldn't be alive. This had to be a dream! But, no, when he looked up from the invitingly fresh coffee smell, Sherlock was still sat in the arm chair opposite him, with a curious look on his face.

"You think you're still dreaming, don't you?" Sherlock smiled, a little bubble of laughter escaping his lips. "Well, you aren't John, I'm really here! I'm alive and I promise you I'm back for good! I have a—"

But Sherlock did not finish his sentence, because John put down his coffee, stood up and hugged Sherlock as tightly as he could.

Sherlock was unsure how to react to this sudden physical affection. He returned the hug, of course, that was the social protocol after all. As John held him tight, his tears wetting Sherlock's jacket, he tried to deduce what the hug meant. But, he couldn't. There were so many possible meanings and Sherlock had never been too good with physical gestures anyway. So, instead, he hugged his old friend back, and let himself drown in the warm feeling it gave him.

Sherlock had just given John a pat on the back, when he suddenly pulled away and glared down at the consultant detective in the arm chair. Sherlock stared up at John, all affection and relief now gone from his face. Sherlock raised his hands up in defence, as John pulled back his fist and punched Sherlock as hard as he could. Immediately after doing that, he sank to his knees and put his face back in his hands, mumbling apologies under his breath.

"Wow," Sherlock clicked his nose back into place with a sickening crunch.

"I am _so_ sorry, Sherlock, I really am I just…" he trailed off.

"You're conflicted, clearly."

"That's a good way of putting it, yes." John rubbed his forehead and lowered, but did not close his eyes.

"You can tell me, John. Tell me how you're feeling; I'm sure it's all perfectly rational!" Sherlock lowered a hand to John's shoulder, trying to comfort him but unsure how.

"I'm relieved that you're alive, I mean, obviously you were dead ten minutes ago so it is a huge relief that my best friend is not actually buried in that cemetery! And… I'm angry because you _lied_ to me…"

"John, I can explain I really ca—"

"Shut up and let me finish, dammit!"

"Sorry, please, please, let me know exactly what you're feeling!"

"I'm sure you have an explanation, you're never without one. But, explain later and let me explain now!" John heaved a shaky breath. "I felt completely empty without you. I felt betrayed because, really, how _could_ you do that to me god damn it Sherlock! Kill yourself in front of me and expect me to get on with it, really?"

"I—"

"I'm sorry, I really am. I just feel angry still. It'll pass, I promise! I'm so ridiculously relieved you're alive because, I _need_ Sherlock Holmes, the fully functioning sociopathic consultant detective in my life."

With that, Sherlock Holmes did something entirely on impulse. His actions shocked even himself, but somehow it felt right! He leant down and took John's face in his hands. John blinked in shock as Sherlock kissed him tenderly. John, who was also shocked by this, shook off all other feelings and kissed him back as hard as he could.


	3. Chapter 3

The kiss was brief but passionate. Sherlock sat back once they had parted, entirely bemused by his own actions and emotions that were betraying him. Kissing? Sherlock Holmes did not _do_ kissing! John carried an expression of equal bewilderment. However, both men also smiled at one another as if to say "you have _no_ idea how long I have wanted to do that!"

"Wow! Er, wow!" John ran a hand through his hair nervously. "That just… we just… did we just…"

"We kissed, John," Sherlock tried to say coolly, although his voice crept an octave higher than usual.

"We did, didn't we…"

Sherlock ached to change the subject, and grasping for a new topic blurted: "John, I'm truly sorry and I will explain why I did what I did! It was all to protect you, I swear on m—"

John didn't want to hear that yet. He covered Sherlock's mouth to shut him up, then kissed him again, picking up where the last kiss left off. The kiss was deeper than before and less urgent. Sherlock let himself drown in it, although he was still entirely confused and conflicted by his actions.

Sherlock's mind was whirring painfully slowly, no longer dusty from lack of use, but now baffled by brand new feelings. It convinced him to stop and pull away, then immediately telling him to screw that and pull John closer still.

All John could think was "Holy Shit! I'm kissing Sherlock!"

Sherlock pulled away, his eyes wild but pained with confusion and his curls wilder than ever. He sat back and John retreated slowly to the sofa, seeing that the detective was entirely overwhelmed by all this. They both sipped their coffee, not making eye contact for more than a few milliseconds. The distance between them felt like a thousand miles, and Sherlock, for the first time he could remember, craved closeness. John seemed to realise this and patted the settee cushion beside him. Sherlock scrambled to sit next to him and cautiously reached out to hold John's hand.

"I cannot fathom… I can't… believe that I'm feeling like this!" Sherlock palmed his face angrily. "Damned emotions!" he pulled at his hair and buried his face in his hands.

"Shhh, it's perfectly natural to feel like this," John soothed, stroking his hand.

"_Not_ for me! _Not_ for Sherlock Holmes it's not natural!" Sherlock raged.

"I know it's hard to believe sometimes, but you are human," John teased, squeezing Sherlock's hand extra tight. "It _is_ natural to have feelings for someone; it's just new to you!"

"Bah! _Love_!" Sherlock seethed, popping a cigarette in his mouth and lighting it up, for want of something distracting.

"Love?" John's voice caught in his throat and Sherlock choked on the thoughtful drag he had just taken. "You _love_ me? Sherlock Holmes loves me!" he sang.

"I didn't—I just meant—well I mean, I guess I do but—"

John silenced him with a kidd.

"Good to know, Sherlock, because I love you, too!"

Sherlock lay with his head in John's lap. The TV was droning on in the background and he was aware of John playing with his hair; which he rather liked, to his great surprise. He was thinking about John and these new found feelings. John was right, it was a natural thing: love. Lots of species mate for life. People are supposed to fall in love, like in films and fairytales. Aren't they? But Sherlock Holmes, the self confessed sociopath, in _love_? This was big news.

He rolled to face the TV but closed his eyes in disgust when he realised John was watching a boring, predictable detective show.

He tried to deduce how John had taken his death as he lay there. John was pale, drawn and thin. Sherlock had noticed, from his trips to the graveyard during John's visits and from the cane hanging by the door that the psychosomatic limp was back. All these pointed to the obvious fact that John had not taken Sherlock's "death" well at all. He was clearly conflicted, as was Sherlock himself. Sherlock could tell John was angry with him, even as he played with Sherlock's hair and allowed him to lie in his lap, John was stiff. He wished Sherlock would have trusted him and this made Sherlock feel guilty. He probably could have trusted John to fake mourn him for a few years, only meeting in secret, whilst Sherlock restored his reputation on the down low. But at the same time, Sherlock knew he had made the right choice- John was safe, if a bit damaged. But hopefully nothing that time wouldn't heal.

Sherlock, feeling guilty for hurting his precious doctor, snuggled closer into John's lap. He reached up and untangled John's hand from his hair. John had beautiful, soft, healer's hands and Sherlock could not help but kiss each finger gently. John took Sherlock's hand and returned the favour, kissing each bony finger tip and savouring the moment. Sherlock reached up and kissed John.

John smiled, despite the fact that Sherlock tasted of cold coffee and cigarettes, and that he had lied to him for six months, he was happy they were reunited.

"My blogger," Sherlock whispered, lying back down in John's lap, practically purring like a cat with happiness.

"My detective," came John's whispered reply.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock awoke several hours later. His neck was unbearably stiff as he sat up from his position, curled in John Watson's lap. John was snoring softly, his head tilted back. Sherlock easily deduced this was his first good night's sleep in a while. He kissed his sleeping John on the forehead and went to make a cup of tea.

After drinking it he gently lay John down on the sofa and went to fetch a blanket to lay over him. After he had made his love comfortable, he sat down and smoked a cigarette thoughtfully. As he blew O's up to the ceiling, he tried to think of what to do next.

If he were in his usual state of mind and his brain was not so muddled by his love for John Watson then it would have taken him less than half the time it did then to come up with a plan. He was going to restore his reputation as a genius, because there was no doubting that he was one. Moriarty was dead, of that he was pretty certain (although "pretty certain" was not enough for him to feel secure enough to take too many risks). The fact that his enemy was dead was certainly an advantage. Moriarty could no longer strap bombs to the man he loved or kill himself at stupidly inconvenient moments.

But how to prove he was actually a genius? Well, that would be more difficult considering A: most of the men at Scotland Yard thought he had killed himself six months ago; and B: they also thought he was the one behind every crime he'd ever solved. This was quite clearly not true, as many of the criminals he caught had confessed on camera or tried to kill Sherlock. He supposed that would not be enough to convince the likes of Sally Donovan who had continued to call Sherlock "the freak" in conversations with John long after Sherlock's supposed suicide.

He thought the best thing to do first would be to go down to Scotland Yard and admit he was actually alive. That was step one sorted, at least. He also decided that there were very few ways to prove that he was actually a genius and not just a very good actor, none of which would hold up legally or morally. So he thought the best thing to do would probably be just to tell everyone that he was back, and prove his genius somehow. Maybe get the ever charming Sally Donovan to pick a random person off the street and get Sherlock to do some deducing? Maybe just dive straight back in to solving crimes and prove that it wasn't him? He decided he would wing it and see how it went.

And then it hit him like a lightening bolt. He knew what he had to do, although he wasn't pleased about it. He would have to get Mycroft involved. Both brothers were high functioning sociopaths with brilliant genius and amazing deducing abilities, although Mycroft tended to keep quiet about his deductions where as Sherlock couldn't help but blurt them out. Mycroft could prove that he was actually a genius, couldn't he? So could their parents although Sherlock was even less willing to get them involved when they so favoured his older brother. Sherlock never got that, after all, he had always been _much_ smarter than Mycroft.

Just then Sherlock realised that John had been watching him for at least ten minutes while he was thinking. When Sherlock noticed, John smiled sheepishly at him and yawned achingly.

"I've missed that." John said, standing up and flicking on the lights. Sherlock had been thinking so long it had grown almost pitch black inside the small apartment. Another thing he hadn't noticed, whoops.

"Missed what?" Sherlock said curiously, locking away his plans into their own room in his Mind Palace.

"You sitting there, entirely lost in thought," John smiled. Sherlock's stomach did somersaults when John smiled at him.

"I've missed having someone watch me," Sherlock smiled in return. "Although I've not been doing that much rational, sober thinking these past six months,"

"Where were you?" John asked, feeling much more curious now he was more awake.

"Molly's house," Sherlock answered, realising he still had the stub of his cigarette in his hand and sucking at it eagerly to no prevail.

"I _visited_ Molly's house all the time!"

"I know, I heard your conversations some times. I would listen in; just so I could hear you speak." Sherlock admitted sheepishly. "I was in her spare room, mostly high or drunk or both. It was rough for me, too, John."

"I accept that," John sighed. "But, I thought you were dead. It wasn't so bad being on my own; I was on my own before I met you. It was just this time; I knew what I was missing out on! I knew exactly what life could be like, but it _couldn't_ be like that because you were dead!"

"I know we can't just carry on as if nothing has happened, John, but—"

"No, we can't… but we can sure as hell try our best to!" John beamed.

Sherlock smiled, it might take some time, some grovelling and some bloody good detective work, but he knew things would return to how they should be soon enough.

But for now, he had to tell his dear brother that he wasn't dead. He plucked his phone out of his pocket and dialled Mycroft's number. It rang for a long time before he picked up, Sherlock deduced that this was because he was supposed to be dead and even the Holmes family get shocked sometimes.

"H—Hello? Sherlock it can't be you!" Mycroft stammered, confirming Sherlock's theory. Who said he wasn't a genius?

"Well, brother, it is," Sherlock winked at John, who was laughing from the other side of the room. "I need your help to restore my reputation, Mycroft,"

"But you've been dead six months!"

"Does this not prove that I am, in fact, a fully fledged genius and not a fake?"

"I suppose but how did you—"

Sherlock sighed, he had just explained this to John but decide he ought to cut his brother some slack; after all, Sherlock was the smarter one.

"Moriarty killed himself; I assume you found his body,"

"Yes and his prints only on the gun," Mycroft cut in.

"Yes, well, very good," Sherlock rolled his eyes, he was already growing tired of his brother. "I did jump from the building, but I also suspected that Moriarty would have me kill myself to save my friends. He had snipers trained on you, John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. I had Molly fetch a body from the morgue, the benefits of having a coroner as a friend I suppose, and dress it in clothes identical to mine. I also had John, who was watching, dosed with that H.O.U.N.D. drug from the Baskerville case," Sherlock paused in case his brother had an angry comment about hacking into secret files. Mycroft remained too shocked to reply, so he continued. "Molly parked a van full of mattresses and sheets just in front of the building and I launched myself perfectly so I landed on that rather than the much harder pavement. Molly then dumped the cadaver. John was hit by Molly on a bicycle which knocked him off balance, further disorientating his tiny mind," he paused before adding, "No offence, John,"

"None taken," John rolled his eyes exasperatedly.

"When he ran to the body, because he was under the influence of the drug, he saw what he expected to see: my body. It was, in fact, some man named David Franks who was a suicide victim from a few days previous. Are you following so far?"

"Er, yes," Mycroft sounded entirely baffled, but Sherlock continued regardless.

"Because Molly works in the morgue and knows me personally, she told everyone that there was no need to identify the body, especially since it was so disfigured from the fall, and Dave Franks was buried in my grave, no questions asked. I attended my funeral actually, lovely service, Mycroft."

There was only silence from Mycroft's end of the phone.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock looked at John with confusion. John shrugged. "Mycroft, are you there?"

A small squeaky voice whispered "You really are a genius!"

"Yes, yes, I know!" Sherlock beamed, his ego practically glowing. "So, anyway, brother, I need your help!"


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft Holmes, who had been shocked enough when his brother called him, was now almost entirely speechless as he poured his little brother and his companion John Watson a cup of tea. John, who had drunk enough tea today, placed his cup down on the priceless antique coffee table. Mycroft was still in too much shock to protest. Sherlock, who thought that you could never have enough tea, sipped the delicate cup, eyeing up his older brother.

"Well, will you help?" Sherlock asked as Mycroft absent mindedly poured some tea for himself, missing the cup completely and scalding his leg in the process.

"Mycroft you're pouring tea all over your suit…" John added.

Mycroft leapt up, dropping the beautiful china teapot altogether. He grabbed a napkin and dabbed at the still steaming stain on his trouser leg. Sherlock sighed and called for the maid to clean up the spilt tea.

The hot tea burning a hole in his, undoubtedly, expensive suit seemed to have snapped Mycroft out of his catatonic state. Sherlock felt proud, it took a lot to make Mycroft speechless.

"So you want me to help restore your reputation as a genius?" Mycroft asked, still dabbing at the stain uselessly.

"Of course," Sherlock smirked. "We both know I'm not a fraud, now the world needs to know. I have to prove it to Lestrade and, you know, the rest of them."

"What, so you can inflate your ego?" Mycroft glared at his younger brother. "How can _I_ make them believe you're a real genius?"

"We're related," Sherlock sighed. "You've known me since I was born, Mycroft, you have home videos. I know you do, you keep them with the security tapes of the flat!"

"And?"

"Oh, you really can be stupid for a genius."

"Give him a chance, Sherlock, he is a bit confused since he found out you're alive!" John interjected. "He wants you to find a tape of him as a little boy, doing something smart. Several tapes if you can. He needs a case; he's been back on the drugs."

"Oh, for God's sake, alright I'll help you!"

"Thank you, brother," Sherlock said as he drained the last of his tea. "Meet me at Scotland Yard on Monday?"

"That's two days, there are hundreds of tapes that mother took…"

"Yes, well, better get started then," Sherlock said. He helped John out of the arm chair and they walked hand in hand toward the door. John hit him and Sherlock sighed before growling, "Yes, okay, _thank you_, Mycroft."

Sherlock and John decided to walk home, despite the cold. As they cut through the park to get to Baker Street, it started to snow. Sherlock, who had almost entirely lost track of time in the previous six months, was astounded.

"Snow in June?" he gasped, holding out a gloved hand to catch the falling flakes.

"Er, it's nearly December, Sherlock…" John corrected him. "You jumped off the hospital on the last weekend of May."

"Oh, wow!" Sherlock scratched his head thoughtfully. "That means it's almost three years."

"Three years since what?"

"Three years since we met, John," Sherlock smiled. "Next year it'll be three years since we met and moved in together!"

"So it is," John beamed back.

John took Sherlock's other hand and they just stood there, smiling at each other as the silent snow fell. Sherlock tried to say something romantic or thoughtful but the words got stuck in his throat. John, who had always been able to read Sherlock like a book, sensed this and gave him a reassuring smile. It did reassure Sherlock, however it did nothing but worsen the lump in his throat.

Sherlock found himself being attracted to John and this was very special indeed. It was very rare that Sherlock found himself physically attracted to a person. Never before had he been both emotionally and physically attracted to someone, yet here he was, stood in the snow with John Watson, his heart racing and his mouth dry and his brain all fuzzy and confused.

John was also conflicted. Emotional attachment was fine, love was fine, but love for a member of the same sex was entirely new. He was straight, wasn't he? He had always known that he was a little bit attracted to his eccentric flatmate. But, he had also always assumed that he was mainly attracted to the fact that Sherlock was exciting and brought adventure and fun into his life. He had dated girls during his time with Sherlock and after he had though Sherlock was dead. Never before had he been attracted in any way to a man, yet here he was too, _his_ heart racing just like Sherlock's, _his _mouth dry and his palms sweaty just like Sherlock's.

This was something new for both parties and they also both knew that about the other. But there was no denying that this was something special and exciting and brilliant, even if it was a bit confusing and scary for them.

Sherlock didn't know what to say or do to show John how he felt. Sherlock had much less experience with romantic love that John did.

He recalled the days when he was mostly high and had a few drunken fumbles. They were his college and university days, although he hadn't really needed to go to university to learn things since he was very smart already. He had spent most of his time coked up to block the pain and isolation he felt. Rarely, on a night out with his few friends, he would "hook up" as he used to vulgarly call it. Sometimes with girls who were too wasted to know what they were doing. Sometimes with guys who were equally as blotto. However, these were clearly not experiences with love, they were experiences with lust; a sensation that was fairly common in Sherlock, especially when he was high.

Sherlock would love to try all these things with John, but because of different reasons. He loved John and he was scared of disappointing him because of his inexperience with romance. He frantically recalled the "Terrible Romantic Movies I have been forced to Watch" room in his Mind Palace and tried to find the appropriate thing to do when standing in the snow with the one you love. All signs pointed to kissing. Kissing in the rain was one of those things teenage girls longed for, wasn't it? How different could kissing in the snow be? In fact, Sherlock reckoned that kissing in the snow was much more romantic and beautiful. Snow was much nicer than rain.

These thoughts took only a few seconds, which he hoped John would think were romantic and dramatic pauses. Sherlock leant down and pressed his lips to John's. John kissed him back. Sherlock smiled against his best friend, and he assumed now boyfriends, lips. He was right; kissing in the snow was much more romantic than kissing normally. John smiled, too. Sherlock had been muttering out loud without realising again and his logic was simply adorable.


	6. Chapter 6

When they returned to 221B Baker Street, Mrs Hudson welcomed both her boys with open arms as if nothing had happened. Sherlock had gone to visit her before he'd gone to see John, so he would have a place to stay. Mrs Hudson had been just as surprised and cross as John had been, but she hated having nobody living in the flat and allowed Sherlock to move back in at once. She'd been utterly bored without her boys to clean up after, and couldn't bear to donate any of Sherlock's science equipment to a school. John walked upstairs and it was as if nothing at all had changed. Last time he had been in 221B he and Mrs Hudson had been packing John's things into boxes so he could move. It seems Sherlock had hired someone to move everything back when they were visiting Mycroft. There was even a science experiment on the dining table, fizzing and bubbling away.

"I'm so glad you boys are moving back in!" Mrs Hudson hugged them both together. "I've made up both your bedrooms, if you'll still need two, that is."

John and Sherlock looked at each other nervously. John smiled and shook his head at Mrs Hudson, "We'll only need one, thanks,"

"Finally, you boys! You've no idea how long I've been waiting for you two to get together. Fancy that, eh? Sherlock comes back and you two fall in love, it's like Christmas come early!" She gave them both an extra squeeze. "I'll put the kettle on shall I?"

John and Sherlock smiled at one another. They went and sat down on the sofa, Sherlock picking up his violin on the way and twiddling with it as they sat.

"John, what have you been doing since my, er, death?" Sherlock asked, tuning his violin quietly. He couldn't help blurting out. "Have you been seeing anyone?"

He immediately regretted asking it as John turned all red and went quiet.

"Sorry, I'm just curious…" Sherlock whispered, leaning his head on John's shoulder.

"Yes, I did, I got drunk a lot and I slept with a lot of girls because I thought it might make me feel better," John said, sounding like there was a lump in his throat.

"I knew about the alcohol, you told Molly,"

"Yeah, didn't tell her about the girls. I was a bit of a twat. I'm not proud of it and I'm obviously not going to do it again…" John snuggled into Sherlock, "Because I have you!"

Sherlock kissed the top of his beautiful John's head. Mrs Hudson came in with cocoa for everyone and someone convinced Sherlock to have a go at playing _Puppy Love _on his violin. He muttered something about silly love songs and being a bit rusty with his playing, but he played just as beautifully as before.

Before long, Mrs Hudson went downstairs to bed and John started yawning and rubbing his eyes like a tired child. Sherlock smiled, he loved it when John was tired.

"Is John sleepy?" Sherlock cooed.

"I'm a grown man, Sherlock!" John rolled his eyes, but as he did so he let out a little yawn. "Well, now that you mention it…"

"Bed time!" Sherlock sang.

There was a brief awkward muttering about whether they should share a bed and, if so, whose? They decided yes and that they would sleep in Sherlock's, because Sherlock pouted about having a nice indent in the mattress where he liked to sleep.

So they retired to bed. John started getting undressed and Sherlock felt himself squirming awkwardly. Was he going to see John naked? Did he _want_ to see John naked? This was it, the friendship was over and something entirely new had begun. Sherlock didn't try to hide the fact that he was admiring John as he changed into a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms. In fact, Sherlock stopped unbuttoning his shirt so that he could focus his attention on John almost entirely naked. John noticed that Sherlock was no longer getting changed.

"You are comfortable with all this, right?" John asked, sliding on the pyjama pants and blocking Sherlock's view, which he had really been enjoying.

"Yes, sorry, got lost in thought…" Sherlock tried not to blush.

Sherlock himself also got changed into a pair of pyjama bottoms; both men went shirtless as it was wonderfully warm sharing a bed. Sherlock lay in the indentation he had made and John cuddled up to him.

"I am very much the man in this relationship," John whispered.

"Are you implying that I'm not manly?" Sherlock rolled over to face John. He could just make out the outline of his face in the darkness. "I'm very manly!"

"You keep thinking that," John smirked, interlacing his fingers with Sherlock's.

"So, what, I'm the woman in our relationship?"

"Yes." John smirked. He gave Sherlock a quick kiss. "Now go to sleep!"

Sherlock rolled over, and mumbled to himself huffily. John smiled and happily drifted off into sleep.

Sherlock's brain was whizzing again. Was that a good thing or was that John asking Sherlock to change? Did every same sex relationship have a more masculine partner and a more feminine partner or was Sherlock just some kind of freak? This was the one of the only times Sherlock wished he had more experience with romance. If he'd been in a romantic relationship before then he'd know exactly what to do, but he hadn't, he was an inexperienced freak.

Sherlock silently slipped out of the bed covers and went into the living room. He didn't want to wake John, so left his violin where he had discarded it. He didn't want nourishment, digestion slowed down his thought process, and they were out of both cigarettes and nicotine patches. He was on his own.

Sherlock got out his laptop and opened the internet. He Googled the question that was dancing around his mind: was it normal to have a feminine participant in a same sex relationship. It seemed like a long shot but there were several hits on Yahoo! Answers.

He muttered to himself, making mental notes of what each person was asking and replying with. Eventually, after an hour and a half of desperate searching on Yahoo and scouring several psychological and gay pride websites he was still unsure. However, he was tired and thought that he might just be able to sneak a few hours of disturbed sleep. He would never be able to sleep properly with the question still taunting him. He crept back to his room and saw John sleeping peacefully. He slid in next to him, trying his best not to wake the beautiful man just inches away.

John did stir, his eyes fluttering open and a small moan escaping his lips. He blinked at Sherlock who was still tucking himself back into the covers.

"Were you up?" he groaned sleepily. "Did you have to wake me?"

"Sorry, I tried not to?"

John yawned and wrapped an arm around his restless friend. "What's on your mind?"

"Is it a good thing?"

"Is what a good thing?"

"Me being the woman in this relationship…" Sherlock was wary of snuggling up to his lover just yet. "Is that a good thing?"

"Why would it be a bad thing?"

"I don't know, I've never been in a relationship before."

"Of course it's not a bad thing. It's a cute thing, and that definitely makes it a good thing!" John smiled, prodding Sherlock's angular face affectionately.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock sounded anxious still. "I don't want to disappoint you. I can be manlier if you want!"

"I don't want you to change at all, silly!" John smiled. "You're Sherlock Holmes, you're perfect! You don't need to change one bit!"

"Positive?" Sherlock's voice was a tiny squeak now.

"Yes!" John snuggled down to sleep again.

Suddenly Sherlock whispered in a barely audible voice. "Are you 100% certain?"

John silenced him with a kiss. "Yes, now shut up and go to sleep!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Authors Note: This chapter has taken me a while- sorry. Not that anyone reads this anyway! Oh well. I had a minor case of mental block and was also busy stalking, ahem, I mean trying to meet Benedict Cumberbatch at the BAFTAs. I was, alas, unsuccessful, but not disheartened and I am determined that I will meet him this year! Then I was staying at my dad's for a week and didn't have much free time to write a new chapter but FINALLY I've completed it! Woohoo! Expect sex. I don't really tend to write smut and I promise to keep this as tasteful as possible! This will probably also be the one of only sex scenes. I think I'm going to do 10 chapters, so nearly finished now! Reviews would be much appreciated!**

Three days had passed and Sherlock had not slept. Three days John had gone to bed worried as his best friend and, now, partner had lay awake next to him. Sherlock had been good, stayed quiet, let his beloved John sleep, yet he could not rest himself. He was happy, content and utterly exhausted. This was, however, not the longest time Sherlock Holmes had gone without sleep, so despite John's worrying; he knew that Sherlock was probably okay.

Mycroft had spoken to Lestrade, spoken to all of the officers at Scotland Yard and shown them the tapes that proved that Sherlock was actually a genius. Sherlock himself had gone down and spoken to Lestrade, who had apologised for doubting him, and even Anderson and Donovan had been convinced. Lestrade had spoken to the head of Scotland Yard and, three days later, Sherlock was still waiting to hear if he was fully forgiven and allowed to help out once more. Being without a case was driving him utterly mad. The waiting was too much for him to handle. At least he was eating, John often reminded himself. He cooked Sherlock at least one meal a day. He didn't want Sherlock wasting away entirely when he'd only just got him back!

On the third night, John was serving Sherlock up a large plate of pasta when the phone rang. Sherlock scrambled up from the table in a mad dash to it, John was left staring after him holding a spoonful of pasta sauce.

"Yes?" Sherlock answered, trying to sound composed. Even John could deduce that he was hopeful by the twinge in his voice. Sherlock nodded, his mouth slightly open, eyes looking relieved. "Thank God!"

John stared at his partner. He had known Sherlock for a very long time. Well, he had known Sherlock for long enough. Never before had Sherlock uttered something like that. Never before had Sherlock Holmes looked so happy. Never before had Sherlock Holmes thanked anyone so much.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you! I could kiss you. Well, no, actually, I couldn't really but you know what I mean. It's a social expression, right? People do say that? Oh who cares, thank you!" He paused to let the other person speak. His eyes still shining, he cleared his throat and smiled shyly at John. When he replied he was back to his usual tone of apathy. "Let me know if something _interesting_ comes up, Lestrade. Okay? Thanks. Bye."

John smiled at Sherlock and continued dishing up their food. Sherlock, on the other hand, had an entirely different idea. He rushed over to John and swept him up in a passionate kiss. John tried not to spill the pasta as he set it down so he could fully embrace his Sherlock.

"What's with the sudden affection?" John muttered when they paused for breath. Sherlock had hardly touched John the past three worry-filled days, let alone kissed him.

Sherlock didn't answer, just kissed him again, this time more slowly. When they parted again, tension hung in the air. But a good kind of tension, the kind of tension that suggested what was going to happen next. John repeated his question.

"Can't I kiss my boyfriend whenever I feel like it? Do I need permission?" Sherlock asked, half teasing half serious. "I'm happy John!" he added, smiling and kissing him again.

They stumbled to the bedroom, John leading the way, still in a passionate embrace. Sherlock had left a chair overturned on the bedroom floor, John tripped on it and they fell on to the bed. Sherlock landed on top as graceful as ever. John was surprised at how light the man felt, being so tall, but was also pleasantly surprised by how nice his weight felt pressed against him. The kiss deepened and they scrambled up the bed into a comfortable position.

Sherlock hurriedly scrambled at John's shirt buttons and then peeled away the fabric eagerly. John was surprised but happily reciprocated by gently undoing Sherlock's shirt buttons and taking his time to examine the flesh beneath with his finger tips. Sherlock moaned happily as John's finger grazed his nipple. John smiled and threw aside Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock started to undo John's belt. John stopped the kiss to help him with his flies and hurry the process along. He began to undo Sherlock's fly, too, but stopped himself and broke the kiss again. Sherlock let out a sigh of annoyance and tried to pull John back in, but John covered his lips.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Sherlock?" John asked, making Sherlock properly look him in the eyes.

"Yes." There wasn't a glimmer of doubt in those beautiful grey eyes. Sherlock stared back attentively, searching for any reluctance in John's blue eyes but also found none. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked, just to be on the safe side.

"Of course," John smiled. They stayed like that for a moment, a million things passing between them but no words being spoken. Then Sherlock forcefully pulled Doctor Watson back into a kiss and things picked up from where they left off: with John scrambling to pull down Sherlock's trousers.

Sherlock rolled off John and kneeled between his splayed legs. John could feel himself getting hard with anticipation but forced himself to ask: "Are you sure you want to do this fir—"

Sherlock cut him off angrily with a forceful kiss.

"John Watson, if you ask me that one more time I will be forced to take drastic measures!" He playfully nibbled John's lip.

John decided he wouldn't argue anymore, Sherlock clearly had his mind set. He decided he might as well just lie back and make the most of it. Sherlock hooked a finger into the waistband of John's boxers and slid them down. He stroked John's cock, eliciting moans of pleasure.

John was just about to mutter some form of instruction to Sherlock, but Sherlock had already taken John's length into his mouth. He licked and sucked expertly, John biting his lip so as not to groan too loud. Sherlock looked up and made eye contact, he looked so utterly beautiful and his eyes shone so wild with lust that John couldn't contain himself any longer.

"Sherlock, I'm going to—"But before he could finish his sentence, he blew his load into Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock swallowed, a look of curiosity mixed with bestial lust flashed in his eyes. He sat up and kissed John, who could taste himself as he kissed Sherlock back. John reached to return the favour, but Sherlock stopped him.

"This is enough for one night, John," he smiled anxiously.

"Of course, that's fine," John stretched out and pulled Sherlock to lie next to him. "I'm exhausted, anyway."

Sherlock didn't answer, and when John looked he was already sound asleep. John smiled, he could sleep soundly now that he knew his wonderful Sherlock was happy at last.


	8. Chapter 8

John awoke with a start. The fire alarm was going off, its shrill, irritating beep cutting short a nightmare. In a way he was grateful for its disturbance, as he had just been reliving Sherlock's fall. Now that he had Sherlock back, he assumed the dreams would stop but it seems they hadn't got the memo. It was during this train of thought that John realised Sherlock was no longer sleeping beside him. The fire alarm stopped and he heard Sherlock's low voice cursing at it in hushed tones. John checked the time, it was 6am. Yep, everything really was returning to normal.

Or so John thought, as he flopped back into the fluffy pillow and closed his eyes. Moments later he was awoken again by the sound of Sherlock crashing through the door. He kept his eyes closed tight, willing the detective to let him catch a few more hours of precious sleep. Go on, Sherlock, use your powers of deduction to realise I want to be left in peace.

"John, I know you're awake," Sherlock whispered, gently nudging the half asleep doctor with his foot. "John, please open your eyes!"

"What, Sherlock? Can't you see I'm tired?" John rolled over on to his front, burying his face in the covers.

"Please, John, I... I got up extra early to s-surprise you and I...I..." John could hear that Sherlock was getting upset. He knew that it was probably an act but it still made his heart ache.

He sat up and was amazed at what he saw. Sherlock had made breakfast. John let his mouth fall open with surprise. Sherlock smiled nervously, unsure of John's reaction.

"You made me breakfast in bed!" John shook his head to clear the sleepy fog, sure that Sherlock Holmes and the tray of delicious looking food would disappear along with it.

"Greedy," Sherlock tutted, nudging John over so he could sit beside him. "I made _us_ breakfast in bed, to share!" He gently placed the tray between them.

John was still struggling to take it all in. He tried to note it all down in his head, be analytical about it, but he was overwhelmed by the care and thought that Sherlock, the self-confessed sociopath, had obviously put into the meal. There were two plates stacked high with pancakes and drizzled in maple syrup, two mugs of hot steaming tea, two glasses of fresh orange juice and a plate of toast, half of the slices coated with golden butter and theother half swimming in raspberry jam. John, once again, let his mouth drop open.

"Do you... like it?" Sherlock asked anxiously, stirring his cup of tea slowly.

"Do I _like _it?" John gasped, throwing his arms around the incredible man sat beside him. "I _love _it! This is wonderfully thoughtful, Sherlock. Especially so for you!" he added with a teasing wink.

"It tastes nice, I promise!" As if to try and prove himself right, Sherlock picked up a piece of jammy toast and nibbled it delicately.

"I'm sure it's delicious!" John started cutting into his stack of pancakes eagerly.

Sherlock smiled and they chatted nonchalantly as they devoured their breakfast. It felt strange to John that they were acting so normal. They were almost like your average couple. He knew Sherlock was trying extra hard to make it up to him and, although he appreciated it greatly, it also felt strange. So strange, in fact, that John cut Sherlock off in the middle of talking about something he had watched on reality TV while John was still asleep.

"Sherlock..." John tried to be tentative, tiptoeing around the fact that this conversation was horrendously dull, at best. Then he realised that Sherlock was probably twice as bored as he was. "Talk to me about a case, or a dead body at the morgue, or... or... the coagulation of saliva after death. Talk to me about something _Sherlock_! Please?"

A slow smile crept across Sherlock Holmes' face and his eyes began to sparkle. He leant in and kissed John slowly, lovingly. When he pulled away, his expression was even more devious.

"Well, Lestrade did text me about a case, but you were sleeping so I turned it down!"

"Ridiculous!" John gasped, swallowing the last of his orange juice. "Turning down a case just so I could get a reasonable amount of sleep! How very un-Sherlock! Call him back, we must leave at once!"

Sherlock smiled at his beautiful, caring, John Watson as he dialed the number for Scotland Yard.

"Still need help on that case, Lestrade?"

John was almost elated to hear Greg Lestrade's voice muffled against Sherlock's ear. "You know we do, we already processed the scene, crimes don't wait, Sherlock!"

"Yes, yes, yes," Sherlock sighed. "Well, what do we have? John and I will be happy to assist anything above a four."

"You said you wouldn't leave the house for anything below a six!" John interjected.

"Yes, but it has been a long time and I am incredibly, incredibly bored!" Sherlock winked.

"Caucasian female, found shot, execution style. Bullet straight through the back of her head, probably died instantly."

Sherlock fidgeted and mouthed: "Level one!" at John, who sniggered disapprovingly.

"Get to the interesting stuff, I'm sure I could work out all this for myself once I'm there!"

"Yes, yes, okay!" Lestrade sounded irritated already, but there was also a hint of something else in his voice. Just the slightest lilt that suggested he was loving having Sherlock back on the team.

"There's more!" It was a statement not a question.

"Of course there's more," Lestrade could be heard to be flipping through his notepad. "It appears the bullet was to put her out of her misery. She was in a log cabin in the woods. You'll like this, Sherlock... She'd been tortured: her wrists and ankles were bound with rope, but she'd been cut loose from the stone table that was also in the room we found her in. There are a lot of symbols on the walls, we've got our deciphering team in but they're getting nowhere."

"What kind of torture?" Sherlock asked, he held up four fingers to John, who then started to get dressed. "Were there signs of sexual assault?"

"Yes , possibly raped, bruising around her inner thighs and a lot of blood, too. Lots of cuts and bruises. She's been branded on her chest and stomach, another symbol we don't recognise." Sherlock showed John two more fingers and John started dressing more quickly. "She's had her face mashed up a bit, so we can't really identify her other than with DNA profiling. She's blonde, out of a bottle by the looks of things. Found totally naked and there are no signs of clothing or any form of ID in the cabin, so we're at a dead end."

Sherlock glanced up and saw that John was ready and holding out Sherlock's coat and that famous blue scarf (which was still a tiny bit bloody).

Lestrade said eagerly, "So, will you take the case, Sherlock?"

"We're on our way!" Sherlock said as bluntly as possible, although his voice was peppered with excitement.

Sherlock stood up and quickly put on his coat and scarf. John smiled at him, now really feeling as if everything were back to the way it should be. Sherlock stooped his head and kissed John briefly but passionately. When they parted, Sherlock's eyes were sparkling with the possibility of danger and excitement to come.

"John Watson, you're a doctor," Sherlock began, and immediately John realised that he was reliving their first case together. "In fact, you're an army doctor. Any good? Seen a lot of injuries then, violent deaths... Want to see some more?"

John nodded and reached out to take Sherlock's hand.

And so began their new beginning.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: **Please excuse how late this is. My laptop broke half way through this chapter so I had to wait until it was fixed to finish this. Sorry. Enjoy!

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson arrived at the crime scene with a swish of Sherlock's long coat. A uniformed police officer led them through a small patch of forest and to a wooden hut, possibly once a hunting cabin before suburban London became a wildlife free zone. Sherlock turned his collar up and John rolled his eyes in exasperation. They approached Sally Donovan who, although did not seem pleased to see either of them, didn't welcome them with her usual cold demeanour. In fact, she seemed quite content to fill them in as she led them to the room where Lestrade and Anderson were waiting, crouched over the body of a beautiful young woman.

"Here's Sherlock and Dr Watson for you," Sally said with a smile. She hadn't called Sherlock freak, now this was suspicious!

"Ah, Sherlock! Glad to see you're... not dead." Anderson said, holding out his hand to shake Sherlock's.

"Why are you being so nice?" Sherlock said bluntly, limply accepting Anderson's handshake. "You aren't usually nice!"

"Oh, I just thought... Well, you know, I felt partly responsible for the whole... Yeah, so I..." Anderson frowned, clearly unsure himself. John smirked at the almost-apology from the self-confessed Sherlock-hater.

"Please stop talking now." Sherlock raised one eyebrow. He turned to John and said. "Take notes for me, please,"

John obediently fished a notepad and pencil out of his pocket and poised himself, ready to quickly jot down Sherlock's often rambling thoughts.

"Well then, freak," Sally Donovan smirked. "Let's see if you're really back!" Although she had called Sherlock by his more than a little offensive pet name, her voice contained no hint of maliciousness and more than a touch of playful teasing. Sherlock felt rather put off by all this affection.

Never the less, he squatted down beside the body of the once beautiful woman, who lay in a puddle of her own blood. He quickly put on a pair of latex gloves before gently picking up her wrist, with thick rope still knotted around it.

"These are strong knots, someone with experience tied these. Looks like a nautical knot, too, but that doesn't necessarily mean sailor..." he leant in closer to the rope, his nose twitching. "The knots are slightly loosened, obviously whoever cut her free tried to untie her, but with very little success. Looks like the rope was cut with a hunting knife." He held the frayed end up for the small crowd of intruiged police workers. "The ropes are hemp too, strongly made, wouldn't have cut easily. Someone worked hard to cut her free, only to kill her themselves."

John smiled to himself, quickly scribbling down bullet point after bullet point as Sherlock worked. He could watch Sherlock deduce things for hours and hours, it was a truly amazing, beautiful and interesting site to behold. He was almost entirely lost in the moment when Lestrade's voice interrupted Sherlock's.

"Do you agree, John?" Greg Lestrade was asking.

"Er, what? Sorry, I zoned out for a moment there!" John Watson blinked a few times, forcing his brain to focus on Lestrade rather than Sherlock. Both of them were staring at him awaiting an answer, Sherlock's grey-blue eyes kept distracting him.

"Greg asked if you agreed with what I said..." Sherlock rolled his eyes, realising John had been distracted by watching his love work. "I think that she may have been dead, or at least near death, berfore she was shot."

"Why do you think that?" John asked, pocketing the notes and sliding on a pair of gloves to help Sherlock examine the body.

"Look here," Sherlock said, tilting back the victim's head and opening her mouth. "Vomit in the back of her throat, redness of the face, especially around the mouth."

"You think she choked to death on her own vomit?" John asked, peering past the mangled lips of the poor, dead woman.

"No, but I think she was choking as she was shot." Sherlock replied. "If she was dead before she was shot, there would not be bruises around the bullet hole, or so much blood. Am I right, Doctor?" Sherlock added with a playful wink.

It took every ounce of self control for John not to pull Sherlock in for a kiss. But that would be a bit not good considering that they were kneeling over the brutalised body of a young woman. Instead John nodded and said, "Right,"

Sherlock could tell that he was a big distraction for John. They'd barely been able to keep their hands off eachother since they were reunited and, although Sherlock loved being back solving crimes, he could not deny that he would quite like to be somewhere more private with Dr Watson right at this very moment. But he pushed that thought to the back of his mind.

Sherlock stood up and said, "Other than that, there are obvious signs of torture like you said. Have you done a rape kit yet?" Donovan shook her head. "Well, get one done quickly to see if we find any DNA. I doubt it, though, looks to me like she was violated with a blunt object." He tried to make the last part of that sentence a bit more empathetic than he usually would. "From the jutting of her bones & the discoloration and weakness of her nails and hair I would say she's been kidnapped for about a month and a half."

"Okay," Greg nodded. "We'll run her DNA to get an identity when we get her back to the morgue."

Sherlock smiled at the thought of seeing Molly again. He'd texted her to say that he had told John he was still alive but had not spoken to or thanked her since then. He knew he really ought to. The fact that she had done so much for him and he had left her without an apology or a word of thanks was, as John would say, a bit not good.

"As for the symbols," Sherlock continued, slowly approaching the wall where they were written. "I've seen them before but I... can't quite..." he frowned at his poor memory. "Some time when I was pretending to be dead I... hmm..."

"Well, tell us what you do know," John encouraged. Sherlock smiled at his blogger gratefully.

_I know that I love you, John Watson. _Sherlock thought with a smile. He realised that the room had fallen silent. Oh no, had he thought that out loud?

Sherlock glanced around the room. Anderson and Donovan, who had been deep in conversation about how Anderson would not leave his wife, were staring at Sherlock open mouthed. Greg Lestrade had dropped the mobile he was talking into onto the hard wooden floor. The rest of the police crew were also throwing quizzical glances and whispering in Sherlock and John's direction.

John was smiling (and blushing furiously) at his shoes. Sherlock stood with his mouth gaping open for a few long moments as everyone stared at him. He struggled to think of something to say, but John came to the rescue.

"I love you, too, Sherlock Holmes," he replied, striding confidently over to Sherlock and kissing him deeply. "And I'm not embarrassed or ashamed to admit it. Although, I think a crime scene is not the best place to get romantic."

Sherlock smiled, seeing the people around him chuckle and grin approvingly. He quickly kissed John back, before turning back to the symbols painted and scratched into the wooden panneled walls. John resumed note taking as Sherlock made quick observations.

Sally Donovan nudged Anderson who was still staring at Sherlock and John. When he turned back to Sally he simply smiled, rolled his eyes and said, "About bloody time!"


	10. Chapter 10

After the crime scene had been fully analysed by Sherlock Holmes' brilliant mind and John had finished telling him off for calling Anderson an idiot after he had been so patient with them, the "real deal", as Anderson had sourly put it, came in to do "real work". Sherlock and John leant on the railing on the porch of the log cabin, flicking through the notes and watching people in white suits bagging and tagging evidence.

"You know I only called Anderson an idiot because it felt too strange with him being nice to me." Sherlock said. John knew this was a statement not a question.

"Yes, I know that. It was still rude, Sherlock!" John shook his head, failing to hide a smile.

"I'm sorry about my, err, outburst in there," Sherlock said emotionlessly.

John looked at him, cocking his head to one side quizzically. "You know I didn't care, or I would have reacted differently. I know you aren't great with emotions, but surely you could have deduced that!"

A faint smile played on Sherlock's lips. "Are you sure? I really don't want to embarrass you, John."

"Why would I be embarrassed?" John asked, furrowing his brow angrily, "Because we're both men? I told you when we first met, everything is okay with me! I'm not ashamed, Sherlock." Then suddenly something dawned on him. "_You're_ not embarrassed, are you?"

"God no! I'm proud to have fallen for you. I wouldn't want to be with anyone else." He looked thoughtful for a moment before considering. "As a self-confessed sociopath, I'm a little bemused and marginally embarrassed that I've fallen in love at all. But as a human, I'm glad that I have you!"

John chuckled lightly and smiled. Although that didn't seem like much, John knew it was a lot coming from a man like Sherlock, who routinely referred to violent murders as "games" and who kept body parts in the fridge as if it were perfectly normal.

"Good," he smiled, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "Shall we go to the morgue then?" John gestured the body that was now being wheeled into the back of a mortician's van.

"Let's hitch a lift on the van!" Sherlock smiled madly, leaping up and chasing after a bemused looking coroner. When the van was stopped, Sherlock pulled John into the back before John could protest.

They shared a very awkward half hour journey back to the Morgue with a rather off-putting grey body bag. Sherlock flicked back through his notes, zoning in and out many times during the journey. John guessed he was storing all the vital information in his Mind Palace and chuckled to himself. Sherlock, oblivious at that point, did not react.

When they finally arrived at the morgue, Sherlock & John helped the elderly coroner to wheel the body down to where Molly was waiting with a clean, cool, metal slab ready. Sherlock smiled at her when he walked in, but helped John to lift the body onto the lab table before he went over to her.

"Sherlock, you're looking so much better!" Molly smiled as Sherlock made his way across the lab to her.

"I never properly thanked you, Molly," Sherlock smiled, awkwardly going to give her a hug. Molly's surprise was quite readable on her face. Her mouth formed a questioning "o" and she slowly and unsurely returned the gesture.

"Wh- what is this...?" Molly laughed nervously, throwing John a questioning glance and an anxious smile.

Sherlock planted a lingering kiss on Molly's lips. John's brow furrowed disapprovingly, despite the fact that Sherlock had run the thank you plan past him briefly on the journey to St Bart's. It still sent a pang of jealousy through his chest. As Sherlock pulled away, John noticed the beaming smile on Molly's face, but also the hint of understanding in her eyes. This was a thank you kiss: nothing more, no matter how much she longed for the grey-eyed detective in the blue scarf.

"You're very welcome, Sherlock," Molly smiled, pulling Sherlock back for another hug. This time, the pang in John's chest was much less. "Now, on to this autopsy, eh?"

Molly turned on a small recording device next to the lab table and started reeling off the things she was legally required to say: the date, gender of victim, circumstances, height, weight etc. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, anxious to get started. Finally, Molly was finished and she waved Sherlock and John over to examine the body. John tutted, Sherlock was far too eager, he practically ran over.

Molly started by photographing the body while Sherlock and John made observations of wounds and abrasions aloud for the recording. Molly then washed the body and they re-examined the body, again photographing it and making observations out loud.

"You're right about the cause of death, Sherlock," Molly said, opening the woman's mouth and taking a swab of the vomit lodged in the back of her throat. "She was choking on this when she was shot." She paused, taking moulds of her teeth to see if they could identify the poor woman from her dental records. "There's a lot of vomit here and a lot of swelling, too. But the clotting and bruising around the entrance and exit wounds suggest she was still alive when it happened."

"Of course," Sherlock muttered, examining the branding on the woman's chest and stomach with his pocket magnifying glass. "I'm always right."

John shook his head, probing the woman's arms and legs for any signs of fracture. "Be nice, Sherlock! Molly could quite easily kick you out of the morgue!"

"But she won't," he said confidently.

Molly frowned, her brow furrowed at the consulting detective. John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who suddenly looked sheepish. Molly rolled her eyes at John, and continued bag the rape test she had just performed.

"I'll just take this upstairs to be tested for DNA," Molly said, heading out the door, leaving Sherlock and John alone with the dead woman. Suddenly, John felt a wave of sympathy for the lady lying cold and still on the hard metal of the lab table, being prodded and poked by three strangers. He frowned, Sherlock noticed.

"What's wrong, John?" he asked, placing the victim's arm back down and putting his own arm around his Army Doctor.

"I've seen a lot of suffering in my time: a lot of people who I couldn't save, a lot of amputations and mutilations but this... this poor woman died afraid and alone, after being tortured for, what looks like, moths! It makes me sick that there are people in the world that would want to do this to such a beautiful, young woman." John took a shaky breath. "And, obviously I've done this with you before, but, it's been a long time. I feel like I'm having to get used to it all over again."

"We'll take things slow, John, I know this isn't easy for you to readjust to." Sherlock smiled, John smiled back, understanding, but opened his mouth to address the other point that he'd made. Sherlock deduced what John was going to say next and interrupted him. "That's why we're here, John," Sherlock soothed. "We're here to make sure that whoever _did this_ gets what they deserve. We help, sometimes we help too late, but it's still helping." He placed a kiss on the tip of John's nose. "So, will you help me help her?"

John smiled. "Definitely." And, once more, began probing the woman's limbs for fractures.


End file.
